I Melt With You
by The Very Last Valkyrie
Summary: I had to take him in, to drink him in: the chin length brown hair, tied back in its usual ponytail; the brown eyes, not as dark as mine but softer, stronger; the gorgeous face, almost stern like a teacher, like when he had been my teacher.
1. I Melt With You

_**Of all the fictional pairings I've ever read about in books, Romitri are probably the one I connect with most. Their love is so pure, and so honest, and so enjoyable to read. I haven't read any of the Sydney books for that very reason - the lack of Dimitri and Rose - so this is canon up to Last Sacrifice, but no further.  
Enjoy.**_

* * *

**I Melt With You**

'_In a fight, they're lethal. Around each other, they melt._'  
– Sonya Karp, The Golden Lily.

Lissa was sitting in one of the same high-backed armchairs I'd seen Tatiana sitting in not so long ago. I couldn't sit down. I paced, looking like a good guardian, when actually, I was anything but. The pots of herbs and vases of flowers Lissa had added to the décor were all giving off soothing scents, but I'd pretty much figured there was no chance of my being soothed today.

"How long?" She asked.

"Less than an hour. Okay, half an hour. Okay, twenty three minutes."

"You're acting like he might stand you up."

"I'm acting like _they_ might stand _you_ up," I told her. "You're the queen, not me."

Life at Court was good, maybe even better than good. Most of the permanent guardians were now friends or at least colleagues, and I got to take college classes with Lissa, and get pedicures with Lissa, and spend my days with Lissa…my nights however, were all my own – or rather, they belonged to someone else. That was the problem. Now completely alienated from his aunt Tasha, Christian Ozera had decided to take a trip to his family's birthplace, and had been touring Eastern Europe for nearly a month. I knew Lissa missed him, but to me, it felt like nothing more than a drop in the ocean of my own sadness. I was sad because Christian had taken his guardian with him, and his guardian was…

_Don_'_t think about it_, I told myself. The only way I could protect Lissa was if I kept _his_ name out of my mind, hide the Western novel he'd left on my nightstand in the back of my closet and train hard, running miles every day with a bunch of other guardians. I think some of them got it and sympathised, but most probably just wanted to get in with me, the queen's personal guardian.

"Rose," said Lissa. "We should go. Remember, the Ozeras have requested that they be allowed to welcome Christian back from their family home with a proper welcome ceremony."

I snorted. "Oh yeah? Funny how he stops being a Strigoi wannabe the minute you're crowned."

"Rose," she repeated, always calm, always tolerant. She was the perfect queen. I felt so proud of her sometimes, I thought I would burst. "Christian needs his family just like you do. Understanding your mother and getting to know your father better has done wonders for you."

"Sure it has."

"_Rose_."

"_What_?"

She smiled, amused by my quick temper. "It's time."

Christian had to come to her, of course. We'd decided on one of the bigger ballrooms, since the entire Ozera family seemed to have RSVP'ed, and someone had refreshed the gold paint and put down a fresh carpet. The whole place sparkled, the chandeliers tinkling in a light breeze drifting in through the open windows. Lissa sat absolutely still, beautiful and serene at the centre of all this, when it was all I could do not to hop from foot-to-foot and glare at the Ozeras royals who beamed at me, overjoyed to welcome Christian, the blackest of black sheep, back into the fold.

She'd said it was time, but it felt like hours before they finally appeared. I kept my gaze focused on the Moroi, who looked tall, handsome and smug in a black parka. Christian always knew which of my buttons to push, but I liked him just fine now, and we'd been through enough together to make us friends. Ignoring his cousins, uncles and aunts, all pushing forward to try to be the first to speak to the queen's inevitable consort, he bowed before her without taking his eyes off her face. Lissa, glowing with pleasure, played along, extending her hand for him to kiss. He did, and the kiss went on longer than was strictly appropriate. I couldn't help but be happy for them both.

Then he kissed her properly, and that went on _much_ longer was appropriate. What the hell, he'd been gone a long time.

And didn't I know it. My stomach twisted like I'd swallowed live snakes, and my palms tingled. I felt sweaty. I felt that if I turned away from Lissa and Christian, even for a second, I didn't know what the consequences would be.

"Guardian Belikov." Lissa's voice rang out, dignified but sweet. "Welcome back."

_He_ said something. My heart was beating too loudly in my ears to hear what, but I heard what Lissa said next.

"Guardian Belikov, I'm so glad to have you back. Certain security matters have been worrying me lately – I was wondering, would you mind finding somewhere private to discuss them with Guardian Hathaway?"

I was trying to be good, I was trying so hard to be good, to be a good guardian, to still be good when Dimitri wasn't around (screw it, I'd thought his name, but it was too late now in any case). My heartbeat was still so loud that I didn't hear his answer, only felt the lightest of touches on my shoulder when he came forward to obey her. Following his lead, I allowed myself to be guided out of the ballroom. The room seemed to throb with silence as we crossed it, everyone knowing or guessing what was going to happen next but everyone too polite to say anything.

Once the massive double doors had closed behind us, Dimitri dismissed the two guardians on patrol in the hall. He spoke Russian and one of them laughed, and the other clapped him on the back.

Finally, we were alone.

"_Roza_," he said gently. "Why won't you look at me?"

"I can't." I really couldn't.

"Why not?"

"I'll…I'll break, or something."

"Rose." He sighed. Slipping two fingers beneath my chin, he tilted my head up until there was nowhere else for me to go, no one else but him. I had to take him in, to _drink_ him in: the chin length brown hair, tied back in its usual ponytail; the brown eyes, not as dark as mine but softer, stronger; the gorgeous face, almost stern like a teacher, like when he had been my teacher.

I melted. For the first time in my life, I felt my knees give out from something other than exhaustion or pain, and when he kissed me, they kept right on buckling and we kept right on going towards the floor. His hands tangled in my hair, bringing me even closer to him. My hands, weak and useless, hung onto the back of his neck, nails digging in. I was pretty sure that if I let go, or if he did, I'd die. I'd missed him so much. It had hurt worse than being shot– and I'd been shot not so long ago, so it was an easy comparison for me to make. I didn't want to be one of those whiny _Stand by Your Man_ types, by my love for Dimitri was so consuming, I couldn't help it. It felt like I was falling apart without him. It felt like I was falling apart right now.

After a long time, he broke the kiss. I was so breathless, I couldn't tell which parts of me were me, and which were him.

"Hey, comrade."

He smiled. "I don't know how many times I've asked you not to call me that."

I couldn't help the shiver that ran through me in response to that smile.

He was all mine, and he made me melt.

_Fin._


	2. With Or Without You

**With Or Without You**

Roza is difficult. She always has been. She is difficult to teach, difficult to tame, difficult to resist. She is more like a flower than she realises: she can't be forced, but under the right conditions, she blossoms. She holds back. She thinks. She softens, even though her beauty will always be hard-edged, always sword blade sharp.

She blooms.

Lissa, the queen, calls me to her when she's finished greeting Christian. This greeting has gone on for a day and a half, but I don't begrudge them their joy. I understand it. I take a share in it, just as Rose does, happy that they're happy.

"Dimitri," she says warmly, her natural charisma making the austere room feel comfortable. "Please, sit."

I do. I sit in the chair opposite hers, which is no less grand. Vasilisa Dragomir is not a queen to stand on ceremony, which is why she is the right choice. I want to look around for Rose, but I know she isn't here. I don't know why, just that she isn't. It wouldn't even be her welcoming smile, a change in her orientation, her, 'you too, comrade?' It would be her power that told me she was near, the power she has over me, something like a scent and something like a feeling. Rose sometimes seems to give off heat, and I feel the burn before I turn a corner and see her face. My love for her has branded her into me, and neither water nor air nor earth can temper us and make us be cool with each other again.

"I wanted to ask you something."

The queen isn't comfortable with titles, so I bow my head and wait for her question rather than addressing it myself. Anything less than 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Highness' would feel wrong to me, and anything more than 'Lissa' or, at the most, 'Vasilisa' would feel wrong to her.

"Are you going to marry Rose?"

"I…"

She smiles knowingly while I consider just how much of the truth to tell her.

"We've discussed it."

"And she shot you down?"

"She thinks she's too young."

"_Now_ she thinks she's too young?" Her jade green eyes roll towards the ceiling. She's wearing a skirt suit of the same colour, a smart choice, a diplomatic choice. "I never thought I'd see the day when Rose Hathaway wanted to play by the rules."

I raise an eyebrow. "You and I both know it's not the rules she's worried about. It surprises even me how firmly she believes in traditional gender stereotypes, that male dhampirs who aren't guardians affect her even more than females do. She has certain ideas about the word 'wife'." I do too. To me, it means partner – comrade, even. She'd like that. "Perhaps one of those ideas is that if she marries me, I'll lock her in a kitchen and expect her to cook and clean for the rest of her life."

Lissa gives a tiny, delicate snort. "Don't ever let Rose cook you anything. _Ever_." Almost as quickly as she became amused, she becomes serious again. "But why do you want to marry her?" She leans forward in her chair, genuinely curious. "Forgive me for stating the obvious, but it's not like you two can have children."

"No," I agree. "We can't have children." And I don't even mind. She's enough, my Roza, childlike and innocent and older than her years at the same time. "But I was brought up in a place where marriage is the ultimate expression of your love for someone. It's not a commitment contract, as it seems to be for most Americans. It's throwing down the gauntlet in front of everyone you care about and making promises to each other. I know she'd do anything for me. She has. She knows I'd do anything for her. It's still not the sort of thing that comes up in everyday conversation."

It wouldn't be right to share the things Rose tells me late at night, or very early in the morning. She's sleepy, her glorious hair tangled, and she tell me things that make me want to wind my fingers into that hair and never let go. If I could lock her in a kitchen and keep her safe forever, I would – but I wouldn't love her as much as I do if she didn't have that fire inside her, that awe-inspiring skill, the passion and perseverance. She is the only woman for me because of all that, and she sets me at war with myself trying and failing not to love her any more than I do.

Rose's best friend looks more confident in my powers of persuasion than I am. In fact, she looks close to being complacent. "I hope," she says, and her voice is truly regal, but still amused. "That you're not planning on giving up on your endeavour?"

"Of course not."

"Good." Her smile just keeps getting wider. "Because she will say yes, you know. When you least expect it, when you're ready to drop the topic and never talk about it again, she'll say yes. Then you can make your promises, although I can't see her in a white dress. Sorry."

I smile back. "I can't either."

She doesn't dismiss me as such, but I can sense when she needs to retreat and go back to Christian, my charge who's off the clock for now. I'm never off the clock, and nor is Rose, which is why I'm not shocked to see her standing in the hallway. She's the picture of innocence in her white blouse, the picture of sin if I allow myself to dwell on what's underneath.

"It's rude to eavesdrop," I inform her.

"I wasn't eavesdropping."

She can't look me in the eye, of course.

"You," I tell her sternly. "Should be in bed. Your shift patterns have been all over the place since we came back."

Her dark eyes flash. "And whose fault is that?"

She's incorrigible, bringing up our private life in the heart of Court just because she can now. I don't mind. I rejoice in it. I'll never be as bold as she is, but I do the same sometimes, just to see her hair swing forward and hide her face. It means she's blushing, and Rose barely blushes.

"Go to bed."

"I'm not tired." Her mouth gapes open in an impolite yawn, and she claps a hand over it. "Oops."

"Roza…"

"I can handle myself. I'm an official adult now and everything."

"Yes, you are."

That makes her old enough to marry me, of course.

I don't point this out.

"Will you go to bed if I tell you a story?"

Diverted but a little embarrassed by idea, she laughs. "What? _The Good_, _the Bad_ _and the Strigoi_? _Dimitri Belikov and the Sundance Kid_?"

Her laughter makes the light pour out of her, not absorbing it like the flower I compared her to but exuding it, more like a sun. I would orbit around her every second of the day if I could, if duty and honour and a dozen other things which appear irrelevant at this moment weren't in the way. There's nothing I can do, nothing but kiss her. I become her student when I kiss her, practising moves I've never tried with anyone else, learning to attack but never to defend myself from her.

Rose is compassionate, fierce, sarcastic, reckless, but above all matter-of-fact. Her kiss explains what can't be explained in less than several thousand words – at least, not by me.

"I love you." She leans her forehead against mine. It's a promise, of sorts.

"I love you."

I won't ever give up on her, on the faintest chance that she'll stand up with me someday. Someday, she might make more promises. She might stare me down, offering me even more of herself than I already hold in my heart like the most sacred of relics. I begin to doubt that more is possible, but she always surprises me.

She always has.

_Fin._


End file.
